The Other Woman

by Daniel Silva

  Publicly, the government of Israel said nothing, in keeping with its long-standing policy of not commenting on intelligence matters. But by early evening, with pressure building, the prime minister took the unusual step of personally denying any Israeli involvement in Kirov’s death. His statement was met with skepticism, perhaps deservedly so. What’s more, much was made of the fact it was the prime minister who issued the denial and not Allon himself. His silence, said one former American spy, spoke volumes.

  Truth was, Gabriel was unavailable for comment at the time; he was locked in a secure room deep inside the Israeli Embassy in Berlin, monitoring the clandestine movements of his operational team. By eight o’clock that evening, all were safely back in Tel Aviv, and Christopher Keller was home and dry in London. Gabriel slipped from the embassy unobserved and boarded an El Al flight for Tel Aviv. Not even the flight crew knew his true identity. For a second consecutive night, he did not sleep. The memory of Konstantin Kirov lying dead in the snow would not let him.

  It was still dark when the plane touched down at Ben Gurion. Two bodyguards waited at the foot of the Jetway. They escorted Gabriel through the terminal to an unmarked door to the left of passport control. Behind it was a room reserved for Office personnel returning from missions abroad, thus the permanent odor of cigarettes, burnt coffee, and male tension. The walls were faux Jerusalem limestone, the chairs were modular and covered in black vinyl. In one, bathed in an unforgiving light, sat Uzi Navot. His gray suit looked slept in. The eyes behind his trendy rimless spectacles were red with fatigue.

  Rising, Navot glanced at the big silver wristwatch his wife, Bella, had given him on the occasion of his last birthday. There was not an article of clothing or fashion accessory on Navot’s large, powerful body that she had not purchased or selected, including a new pair of oxfords that, in Gabriel’s opinion, were far too long in the toe for a man of Navot’s age and occupation.

  “What are you doing here, Uzi? It’s three in the morning.”

  “I needed a break.”

  “From what?”

  Navot smiled sadly and led Gabriel along a corridor with harsh fluorescent lights overhead. The corridor led to a secure door, and the door to a restricted area just off the main traffic circle outside the terminal. A motorcade rumbled in the yellow lamplight. Navot started toward the open rear passenger door of Gabriel’s SUV before abruptly stopping and walking around the back of the vehicle to the driver’s side. Navot was Gabriel’s direct predecessor as chief. In an unprecedented break with Office tradition, he had agreed to stay on as Gabriel’s deputy instead of accepting a lucrative job with a defense contractor in California, as Bella had wished. He was doubtless regretting his decision.

  “In case you’re wondering,” said Gabriel as the SUV drew away, “I didn’t kill him.”

  “Don’t worry, I believe you.”

  “It seems you’re the only one.” Gabriel picked up the copy of Haaretz that lay on the seat between them and stared gloomily at the headline. “You know it’s bad when your hometown newspaper thinks you’re guilty.”

  “We sent a back-channel message to the press making it clear we had nothing to do with Kirov’s death.”

  “Obviously,” said Gabriel as he leafed through the other newspapers, “they didn’t believe you.”

  Every major publication, no matter its political tilt, had declared Vienna a botched Office operation and was calling for an official inquiry. Haaretz, which leaned left, went so far as to wonder whether Gabriel Allon, a gifted field operative, was up to the job of chief. How things had changed, he thought. A few months earlier he had been fêted as the man who had eliminated Saladin, ISIS’s terror mastermind, and prevented a dirty-bomb attack outside Downing Street in London. And now this.

  “I have to admit,” said Navot, “it does bear more than a passing resemblance to you.” He was scrutinizing Gabriel’s photograph on the front page of Haaretz. “And that little fellow next to you reminds me of someone else I know.”

  “There must have been an SVR team in the building on the other side of the street. Judging from the camera angle, I’d say they were on the third floor.”

  “The analysts say it was probably the fourth.”

  “Do they?”

  “In all likelihood,” Navot continued, “the Russians had another static post at the front of the building, a car, maybe another flat.”

  “Which means they knew where Kirov was going.”

  Navot nodded slowly. “I suppose you should consider yourself lucky they didn’t take the opportunity to kill you, too.”

  “A pity they didn’t. I might have received better press coverage.”

  They were approaching the end of the airport exit ramp. To the right was Jerusalem and Gabriel’s wife and children. To the left was Tel Aviv and King Saul Boulevard. Gabriel instructed the driver to take him to King Saul Boulevard.

  “Are you sure?” asked Navot. “You look like you could use a few hours of sleep.”

  “And what would they write about me then?”

  Navot thumbed the combination locks of a stainless-steel attaché case. From it he removed a photograph, which he handed to Gabriel. It was the photograph Mikhail had snapped of Konstantin Kirov’s assassin. The eyes were not quite dead; somewhere was a faint trace of light. The rest of the face was a mess, but not from the accident. It had been stretched and pulled and stitched to such a degree it scarcely looked human.

  “He looks like a rich woman I once met at an art auction,” said Gabriel. “Have you run him through the database?”

  “Several times.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing.”

  Gabriel returned the photograph to Navot. “One wonders why an operative of his obvious skill and training didn’t eliminate the one and only threat to his life.”

  “Mikhail?”

  Gabriel nodded slowly.

  “He fired four shots at him.”

  “And all four missed. Even you could have hit him from that distance, Uzi.”

  “You think he was ordered to miss?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe they thought a dead Israeli would make their cover story less believable. Or maybe they had another reason,” said Gabriel. “They’re Russians. They usually do.”

  “Why kill Kirov in Vienna in the first place? Why didn’t they bleed him dry in Moscow and then put a bullet in his neck?”

  Gabriel tapped the stack of newspapers. “Maybe they wanted to use the opportunity to fatally wound me.”

  “There’s a simple solution,” said Navot. “Tell the world that Konstantin Kirov was working for us.”

  “At this point, it would smell like a cover story. And it would send a message to every potential asset that we are incapable of protecting those who work for us. It’s too high a price to pay.”

  “So what are we going to do?”

  “I’m going to start by finding out who gave the Russians the address of our safe flat in Vienna.”

  “In case you were wondering,” said Navot, “it wasn’t me.”

  “Don’t worry, Uzi. I believe you.”

  7

  King Saul Boulevard, Tel Aviv

  It had been Uzi Navot’s wish, during the final year of his term as chief, to move the headquarters of the Office from King Saul Boulevard to a flashy new complex just north of Tel Aviv, in Ramat HaSharon. Bella was said to be the driving force behind the relocation. She had never cared for the old building, even when she worked there as a Syria analyst, and found it unbecoming of an intelligence service with a global reach. She wanted an Israeli version of Langley or Vauxhall Cross, a modern monument to Israel’s intelligence prowess. She personally approved the architectural designs, lobbied the prime minister and the Knesset for the necessary funding, and even chose the location—an empty plot of land along a high-tech corridor near the Glilot Interchange, adjacent to a shopping center and multiplex called Cinema City. But Gabriel, in one of his
first official acts, had with an elegant stroke of his pen swiftly shelved the plans. In matters of both intelligence and art, he was a traditionalist who believed the old ways were better than the new. And under no circumstances would he countenance moving the Office to a place known colloquially in Israel as Glilot Junction. “What on earth will we call ourselves?” he had asked Eli Lavon. “We’ll be a laughingstock.”

  The old building was not without its charms and, perhaps more important, its sense of history. Yes, it was drab and featureless, but like Eli Lavon it had the advantage of anonymity. No emblem hung over its entrance, no brass lettering proclaimed the identity of its occupant. In fact, there was nothing at all to suggest it was the headquarters of one of the world’s most feared and respected intelligence services.

  Gabriel’s office was on the uppermost floor, overlooking the sea. Its walls were hung with paintings—a few by his own hand, unsigned, and several others by his mother—and in one corner stood an old Italian easel upon which the analysts propped their photographs and diagrams when they came to brief him. Navot had taken his large glass desk to his new office on the other side of the antechamber, but he had left behind his modern video wall, with its collage of global news channels. As Gabriel entered the room, several of the screens flickered with images of Vienna, and in the panel reserved for the BBC World Service he saw his own face. He increased the volume and learned that British prime minister Jonathan Lancaster, a man who owed his career to Gabriel, was said to be “deeply concerned” over the allegations of Israeli involvement in the death of Konstantin Kirov.

  Gabriel lowered the volume and went into his private bathroom to shower and shave and change into clean clothing. Returning to his office, he found Yaakov Rossman, the chief of Special Ops, waiting. Yaakov had hair like steel wool and a hard, pitted face. He held a letter-size envelope in his hand and was glaring at the BBC.

  “Can you believe Lancaster?”

  “He has his reasons.”

  “Like what?”

  “Protecting his intelligence service.”

  “Duplicitous bastards,” murmured Yaakov. “We should never have granted them access to Kirov’s material.” He dropped the envelope on Gabriel’s desk.

  “What’s that?”

  “My letter of resignation.”

  “Why would you write such a thing?”

  “Because we lost Kirov.”

  “Are you to blame?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Gabriel picked up the envelope and fed it into his shredder. “Is anyone else thinking about tendering their resignation?”

  “Rimona.”

  Rimona Stern was the head of Collections. As such, she was responsible for running Office agents worldwide. Gabriel snatched up the receiver of his internal phone and dialed her office.

  “Get down here. And bring Yossi.”

  Gabriel rang off and a moment later Rimona came rushing through the door. She had sandstone-colored hair, childbearing hips, and a notoriously short temper. She came by it naturally; her uncle was Ari Shamron. Gabriel had known Rimona since she was a child.

  “Yaakov says you have something for me,” he said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your letter of resignation. Let me have it.”

  “I haven’t written it yet.”

  “Don’t bother, I won’t accept it.”

  Gabriel looked at Yossi Gavish, who was now leaning in the doorway. He was tall and balding and tweedy and carried himself with a donnish detachment. He had been born in the Golders Green section of London and had earned a first-class degree at Oxford before immigrating to Israel. He still spoke Hebrew with a pronounced English accent and received regular shipments of tea from a shop in Piccadilly.

  “What about you, Yossi? Are you thinking about resigning, too?”

  “Why should I get the sack? I’m only an analyst.”

  Gabriel smiled briefly in spite of himself. Yossi was no mere analyst. He was the chief of the entire department, which, in the lexicon of the Office, was known as Research. Oftentimes, he did not know the identities of highly placed assets, only their code names and pseudonyms, but he was among the small circle of officers who had been granted unlimited access to Kirov’s file.

  “No more talk about resignation. Do you hear me?” asked Gabriel. “Besides, if anyone’s going to lose his job, it’s me.”

  “You?” asked Yossi.

  “Didn’t you read the newspapers? Haven’t you been watching television?” Gabriel’s gaze drifted to the video wall. “They’re baying for my blood.”

  “This too shall pass.”

  “Maybe,” admitted Gabriel, “but I’d like you to increase my chances of survival.”

  “How?”

  “By bringing me the name of the person who signed Kirov’s death warrant.”

  “It wasn’t me,” quipped Yaakov.

  “I’m glad we cleared that up.” Gabriel looked at Rimona. “How about you? Did you betray Kirov to the Russians?”

  Rimona frowned.

  “Or maybe it was you, Yossi. You always struck me as the treacherous type.”

  “Don’t look at me, I’m only an analyst.”

  “Then go back to your office and start analyzing. And bring me that name.”

  “It’s not something that can be done quickly. It’s going to take time.”

  “Of course.” Gabriel sat down at his desk. “You have seventy-two hours.”

  The rest of the day passed with a torture-chamber slowness; there seemed to be no end to it. There was always one more question for which Gabriel had no answer. He consoled himself by attempting to console others. He did so in small gatherings, for unlike the headquarters of the CIA or MI6, King Saul Boulevard had no formal auditorium. It was Shamron’s doing. He believed that spies should never congregate in their place of work, either for purposes of celebration or for mourning. Nor did he approve of American-style motivational speeches. The threats facing Israel, he said, were incentive enough.

  In late afternoon, as vermilion light flooded Gabriel’s room, he received a summons from the prime minister. He cleared his desk of several routine matters, checked in on a pair of ongoing operations, and at half past eight climbed, exhausted, into his motorcade for the drive to Kaplan Street in Jerusalem. Like all visitors to the prime minister’s office, he was forced to surrender his mobile phone before entering. The anti-eavesdropping box into which he placed the device was known as the “beehive,” and the secure area beyond was the “fishbowl.” The prime minister greeted Gabriel cordially but with a distinct coolness. An inquiry involving his personal finances was threatening to unravel his premiership, the longest since David Ben-Gurion’s. The last thing he needed now was a scandal involving his intelligence service.

  Ordinarily, Gabriel and the prime minister adjourned to the comfortable seating area for briefings or private discussions, but on that evening the prime minister chose to remain at his desk beneath the portrait of Theodor Herzl, founder of the nineteenth-century Zionist movement that led to the reconstitution of Jewish rule over a portion of historic Palestine. Under Herzl’s unremitting gaze, Gabriel relayed the facts as he knew them to be. The prime minister listened impassively, as motionless as the man in the photograph over his shoulder.

  “Do you know how I spent my day?” he asked when Gabriel had finished.

  “I can only imagine.”

  “Eighteen of my foreign counterparts took it upon themselves to phone me directly. Eighteen! That’s the most in a single day since our last war in Gaza. And all of them asked the same question. How could I be so reckless as to permit my celebrated intelligence chief to gun down a Russian intelligence officer in the heart of Vienna?”

  “You did no such thing. Nor did I.”

  “I tried to explain that, and not a single one believed me.”

  “I’m not sure I would have believed you, either,” admitted Gabriel.

  “Even my friend in the White House w
as skeptical. Some nerve,” murmured the prime minister. “He’s in more trouble than I am. And that’s saying something.”

  “I don’t suppose Jonathan Lancaster called.”

  The prime minister shook his head. “But the chancellor of Austria kept me on the phone for almost an hour. He told me he had incontrovertible proof we were behind the Russian’s murder. He also asked me whether we wanted the body of our assassin back.”

  “Did he elaborate on the evidence?”

  “No. But it didn’t sound like he was bluffing. He made it clear that diplomatic sanctions are on the table.”

  “How serious?”

  “Expulsions. Maybe a full break in diplomatic relations. Who knows? They might issue an arrest warrant or two.” The prime minister regarded Gabriel for a moment. “I don’t want to lose a Western European embassy over this. Or the chief of my intelligence service.”

  “On that,” said Gabriel, “we are in complete agreement.”

  The prime minister glanced at the television, where a newscast played silently. “You’ve managed to dislodge me from the lead position. That’s quite an accomplishment.”

  “Trust me, it wasn’t my intention.”

  “There are serious voices calling for an independent review.”

  “There’s nothing to review. We didn’t kill Konstantin Kirov.”

  “It certainly looks like you did. A review might be necessary for appearances’ sake.”

  “We can handle it ourselves.”

  “Can you?” The prime minister’s tone was dubious.

  “We’ll find out what went wrong,” said Gabriel. “And if we bear any blame, appropriate measures will be taken.”

  “You’re starting to sound like a politician.”

  “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

  The prime minister smiled coldly. “Not at all.”